Underneath the Black Rainbow
by Ambitious Dreams
Summary: Follow an ailing Mr. Puckett on his journey of self rediscovery and redemption, to find the daughters he left behind years ago. Set in the future.
1. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

**The story you just clicked on was originally a short story I wrote for a friend of mine, when given the prompt "Real men don't run from their problems." She instructed me to keep it short and simple, 1,000 words or less, depicting why men are despicable creatures. As a man, she decided I must have the necessary insight *rolling eyes*. I originally planned to keep under her word limit, but I kept writing and writing and eventually when I rolled past 30,000 words, I figured I'd better just keep going anyway.**

**She loved it and begged me to put it up, so I will heed her wishes. The story is written already and finished, and in an effort to keep from feeling like I am "bombing you" with a massive document, I'm going to break it up into chapters I will post every couple of days or so when I find the time.**

**The name of the story is an adaptation of an album name of the band Coheed and Cambria, **_**Year of the Black Rainbow**_**, and I thought it fit the nature of this story quite nicely. It is a wonderful album.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly, I only own the plot holes and bad grammar.**

_Italics are journal entries, _while regular text is storytelling.

…_**AD…**_

_March 14__th__, 2022_

_Oklahoma City, Oklahoma_

_Personal Study_

_The beginning of the end…_

_I have forever pondered that phrase, and why so many people have coined it. It doesn't seem to inherently make sense, two adverse terms with opposite meanings in the same sentence to illustrate and signify what exactly? I always perceived the world simply, as either or, or black and white. Interpretations have no need in a society that functions on the simple ethos of "What's mine is mine, and what's yours will soon be mine."_

_All beginnings have an end, and all ends have a beginning, but between those two personifications, there is a journey that must be told, for it would make the beginning pointless, and the ending confusing. One would be undermining the most important part of a signifying accomplishment if they were to simply forget the journey, the trials and tribulations would be all for naught. Also, If one were to follow that logic, isn't all beginnings, the beginning of the end? This is why such a conundrum has formed within the confines of my mind._

_From the time a baby is born into the world, it begins to die._

_Why are we dying to live, when we are living to die?_

_A cynical point of view I realized, but it is what I have always believed. I've never really had a wonderful view of the world we live in, never has rose colored glasses perched on the bridge of my nose. The world has many untold wonders, and holds life that seems so scarce when you realize we are alone in this solar system. Why are we so special as to live and breathe on this planet, the one with the perfect atmosphere, when no other rock has that capability?_

_We have triumphed as race by simply existing, all other accomplishments are just icing on the proverbial cake. But yet even with the beauty of the world and its creatures, there is a dark in the light, and however small it is, it is perceived to be growing and growing, doomsday scenarios playing in the heads of the patrons of this world. I don't have sympathy for those who lurk in the shadows, fear-mongers that prey on the weak hearted. As I stated, I thought the world to be black and white, and interpretations are a simple waste of time. A person knows within mere milliseconds an answer to a life-altering question, and whether or not an event they see is right or wrong, but it is when a person thinks cognitively and effortfully, that is where he or she will start to interpret a grey area. It is human nature. _

_People can have their opinions and think the world is more than two sides, that the true nature of society is what isn't seen, the grey area that only makes the black and white seem more dull, but I always thought they were wrong, kidding themselves into believing in the good in human nature. The fact is we are all animals on this planet, just some of us have a larger brain and opposable thumbs. _

_I always believed that finding that magical "Silver lining" in an event was for those with a weak heart and no fortitude, and those who lacked might and girth. If you don't have the wherewithal and the "want to" to fight back against oppressors, and simply resign yourself to a lower status, then you deserve the admonishment you will receive, whether from yourself or by the society in a whole. If you were fired, you were fired. If you lost your life savings, you lost your life savings, and the only thing you could do at that point, was work your way up until you got back to where you wanted to be, or beyond._

_No one is out there to do you any favors in life, I believed, and that there is no such thing as altruism. An altruistic personality is a figment of the collected imaginations of wide-eyed wonderers who see the good in the world, and ignore the wretched underbelly of society. People who help another in a crisis, is ultimately only looking out for themselves, expecting you to reward them handsomely for their deed. It is a logic argument if anything else, why should I risk everything of mine for everything of yours, when you are a perfect stranger to me? You have to look out for yourself in this world, or no one will._

_This was my philosophy as a young man, and I believed that anyone else who believed otherwise, was doomed to failure in life, becoming a burden on family and friends, and society as a whole. To hell with social creatures, man was meant to toil away alone, as the superior animals on this magnificent rock, trying to perfect his way of living to the precipice of utter happiness. If a man was happy with his family and friends surrounding him, let him whither under his unused ambition, while the man with boundless ambition, soars over society and rule it with an iron fist._

_The cream will rise to the top, and the perfect creatures will lead the way. A perfect creature has no need of others, only those that could help him succeed and fulfill his destiny._

_Ah, but as times change, people must evolve, or they will be doomed to extinction._

_I see now in my advanced years, sitting in this dimly lit room for which I am writing this, that my headstrong and stubborn ways as a young man was ultimately leading me down the path of a hermit. I may believe that I needn't anyone else to make myself happy, but I was living the lie that perpetrated my youth. Humans are social creatures, and only when a person creates a bond so strong that they physically feel ill when the other doesn't reciprocate their affections, can one feel pure anguish and sorrow, and only when a person creates a bond so strong that is reciprocated, can a person feel the purest form of elation and euphoria._

_You must not be afraid to express your emotion and feelings, for life is bleak and desolate without that basic function of human nature. As your heart opens, it begins to let in every emotion a human can feel, even the emotions that wish you had not known existed. Dread, doubt, sorrow, sadness, greed and all other dower synonyms one can think up. That is the necessary opportunity cost if a person wishes to be complete. Does the good outweigh the bad? Only a single person can make that distinction, and I believe it does, after living on this earth as long as I have. I only wish I had realized this fact sooner, for maybe my life would have turned out differently than it had._

_And as for the presence of altruism? I'm still not quite sure. I have seen horrors in my life that I cannot wipe from my mind: innocent people dying, homes burning, shells ripping apart thriving communities while the citizens run for their very lives, and terror on unprecedented scales. Burning flesh is a smell you can never get used to, or wipe from the confines of your mind. But this is the natural recourse of my chosen life. A military man is unlike any other._

_But that is not to say I have seen only horrors in my life. I've seen random acts of kindness, good Samaritans, people helping people in the wake of atrocities. I've seen a man jump on top of a grenade to save his platoon. Is he not the purest form of altruism? Was he thinking of himself when he gave his life to save the men he served with? No one can ask him now, but you will be hard pressed to find even the most hardcore cynic out there, saying that he was._

_All I know on the topic is, whether or not it truly exists or not, I sure hope it does._

_But as much as my views on life have changed from childhood to adulthood, I still cannot bring myself to believe that society and people are as righteous as ideological children and young adults believe it to be. I have the burden of knowledge, and the burden of experience to believe such philosophies. Maybe the younger generation can begin to change this, but I believe it will be too much of an uphill battle, and they will ultimately fall prey to what all previous generations of humans have, to violence and death, the vicious cycle inherent in life. But I hope I am wrong._

_Now I fear I have begun to ramble, but self-reflection is all a man like me has at this point in his life. I feel I lived a good life, full of trials and tribulations I faced head on, and emerged victorious. I have ascended the steps in life, rushing forward brazenly without another thought like a headstrong young man does, without fearing another person or situation. As long as I had my strength and will to fight, I would not fail, and above all else, I would never back down. I didn't make it a habit to regret anything in my life, for I felt it was part of the journey._

_But… I am not a perfect being, for no one to grace this earth is or was. I do have a regret in my life, one so large and massive that it threatened to consume my very self when I was younger, and even today as an old man. It is something I can't help but think of every waking day of my life, and it wracks me with so much guilt and despair that sometimes I feel sick to my stomach. Just thinking about it, I feel the guilt right now rattling around in my bones._

_That day and decision I regret, was the first and only time I can remember feeling true terror and distress. Only one time did I feel fear. It wasn't from the countless muzzles of rifles I've seen pointed at me, live grenades I've had to kick out of range, or landing in countries with names that are illegal for me to say aloud. No, it was the day I decided to run, and keep running until the tears stopped and the weight of the world fell on top of me._

_I have done something so despicable that I feel even this inanimate journal I scribble my thoughts into, will judge me. I can no longer hide this bitter fact of my life, can no longer tuck it into the back of my mind and pretend to be the same old Dan Puckett I always was. Yes, I have amassed wealth and an army of loyal friends, but I had to do it at the expense of the one thing I don't have. I sacrificed the one thing many men in this world would give everything they had to protect and care for, and I trivially threw it all away._

_A family._

_I ran at the prospect, backed down in the face of it. I always prided myself on my ability to fight, anyone and anything, but yet at the crossroads of my young life, when my fight or flight responders kicked into gear, I decided to run for fear of what a family might do to my life._

_And now, I am on an inevitable crash course with my destiny. I am not long for this world. Even now, after writing these reflections, my hand has started to shake and I feel the need to lie down, but I must finish this entry. The body is weak, but the soul is willing, and therefore I will find the necessary strength to complete this expedition. It has been what my entire life has been leading up to, what I will die doing if so be my fate._

_So I mark this day in my personal history, March 14th, 2022, sitting in this dark room of my house, on the doorstep of Spring, the day I officially begin my journey, the one I should I have done earlier in my life, the one that I shouldn't have to do if not for my own selfishness and fear. Once I finish my preparations, I will embark on the journey to traverse this great country, searching for what I am almost certain I will not be able to find._

_I have to find my daughters._

…_**AD…**_

**That is the prologue. I understand if some believe that Mr. Puckett should not be so philosophical, but that was the characterization that came out of my writing. And since there is no Mr. Puckett in the iCarly universe, I guess I have free reign huh?**

**Please give feedback, if you would be so kind**


	2. Guymon, Oklahoma

**The dates in this tale are based on my (poor) math skills. I figure in 2010, the iCarly cast is sixteen, so I jumped twelve years into the future, making them now twenty eight, and Dan to be somewhere in his sixties just to give you a point of reference. I didn't really take too long of a time to figure out exact dates and things of that nature (I estimated hastily to be honest), so if there are skewed numbers, I already know about them. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly, I only own the plot holes and bad grammar.**

_**...AD…**_

_March 16__th__, 2022_

_Guymon, Oklahoma_

_Dante and Son's Family Inn_

_The beginning of the end…_

_A familiar beginning right? While I still believe this statement is more pointless insofar as a real event, I am beginning to understand why this statement could be much more concrete than philosophical. A beginning has an end, it always does, but this statement speaks to a solitary event in which the end seemed to draw ever nearer. I liken it to a rolling ball, to put it archaically I suppose. The ball could roll forever, as it was designed to do, but because of friction and gravity, it will eventually slow and stop, unable to keep its momentum._

_And if one were to roll a ball off the edge of a table, it would fall off and begin a downward descent, gaining more momentum, and then it would strike the ground, probably bounce, roll around a bit, then come to a complete stop on a flat surface. But once the ball strikes the ground and bounces off the created energy, the ball ultimately loses much of its built momentum and will stop much quicker._

_The ball begins at a stop, and ends at a stop, but the journey is the important part of the story. Rarely does a story only have two focal points, the beginning and the end, it has many flashpoints that ultimately make up the story as a whole, even in something as trivial as a rolling ball._

_But, therein lies the beauty of storytelling, it may be a cyclical art form, but a good storyteller tells the story from beginning to end, letting the secrets of the journey slip, and then the end draws the story to a close. If it is told out of order, while possibly thrilling and original, it ultimately undermines the impact of the story on the faithful viewers._

_The point, is that the exact moment the "beginning of the end" occurs, it is unexpected and is a sharp turn in the story, which foreshadows an ultimate conclusion to the tale. The beginning of the end in the story of the rolling ball, is the moment that little ball strikes the ground and loses its momentum. The viewer understands at that very moment, the ball's tale has taken a swift turn, and it will lead down the path to the conclusion of the story. A storyteller may try to trick the viewer by taking more swift turns, to try to keep the viewers interested, but this also will undermine the impact. They understand the result._

_There are many more contemporary arguments I can make from historical events that support my theory._

_The famed Oglala Lakota Sioux warrior Crazy Horse, believed to be invincible by his comrades and enemies, a respected force on the battlefields of the Great Plains, slayer of Armstrong Custer, had a wonderful story. But the beginning of the end of his story came when he surrendered at Camp Robinson in Nebraska. He had killed far too many white men to be allowed to live._

_The Battle of Gettysburg in the American Civil War. There was no way the CSA would be able to continue the war effort._

_Napoleon Bonaparte, when he and his massive army entered a little village named Waterloo._

_All of these stories have a common theme. The protagonist (or antagonist if that is how you view them) had everything going for him, lots of momentum, and the ending could be speculated by viewers who jumped to the conclusion. But the story wasn't quite over yet, for the storyteller felt a flick of the storyline was in order, and it quickly went the complete opposite way, much to the chagrin of the protagonist. This is an essence of wonderful story telling, one swift and hard turn, where the audience suddenly realized that the conclusion was near, and they could speculate quite accurately how it was going to end._

_I have come to this realization, not because I understand the concept suddenly, but because whoever it is telling my story, decided I needed a beginning of the end…_

**_...AD..._**

A dreary sky cast upon the ground reflections of dark clouds, covering the sun with their denseness. The heat of the previous day, an odd isolated day of heat in an otherwise bone chilling Oklahoma winter, was still trapped, washing the land in a humid heat that felt wonderful to the frozen residents of the Southern Plains.

An elderly looking man sat at the stool of a small diner, directly off I-40 in what seemed like a desolate desert, compared to the city that lay to the east. The man was relatively young to his senior counterparts, but his rugged grey beard, aged lines that etched his forehead and cheeks, and quiet and subdued nature told of a man who had lived a hard life, and seen many things others couldn't fathom. He took a small sip from his coffee, returning his attention to the newspaper clutched in his hand.

"You ready for another coffee my friend?" the owner of the diner asked him, walking down the length of the bar, dishrag in one hand, pot of coffee in the other.

"Couldn't hurt." The man replied, holding out the white cup for the owner. He poured the pitch black substance into the mug, and put the pot back down behind him.

"So what's the plan for today Dan?" the owner asked, leaning against the bar of his establishment, sipping from his own cup of coffee.

"Doctor's appointment down in the city." He replied, folding the newspaper and laying it on the empty stool next to him.

"Didn't you have an appointment a week ago?" he asked and Dan nodded.

"Follow up appointment with the Doc, should be nothing." He said. "Said he wanted to see me and go over the results of the tests they did."

"Is everything alright?" the owner asked, eyebrows knitted together.

"Ah' hell Marco, you don't need to worry about me." He said with a belly laugh. "I'm made of tougher stuff than your average man."

Marco grinned a sly grin, laughing with his regular patron "I know that, but I have to worry about my customers, especially loyal ones like you." He said, looking around his modest establishment. "Sometimes I think the only reason this place is still standing is because of you, and the out-of-towners that pass through to see the Sooners play."

"Well, the food is good, the service is good, and it's quiet. I think you have a fine establishment here." He complimented, sipping from the mug of coffee. "Just call it a diamond in the rough."

Marco sighed "Then I wish the diamond would sparkle a little brighter. The wife and I are thinking about packing up, selling the building, and putting up another diner down on I-35, just south of Norman, to catch the college kids coming and going."

Dan shrugged "It would probably be better for business I'll admit, but there is a flaw in that plan." He said, pointing at Marco who had a questioning look on his face. "You'll also have to serve those damn Texans coming up from Dallas." He said and they both shared a laugh.

"That is true, but at least you know I'll be serving the smart ones." He said with a chuckle. "The ones smart enough to leave Texas." He said and they fell into another round of laughter at the expense of their neighbors to the south.

Dan looked down at his watch and decided he needed to take his leave. He got up off the stool he had spent his time on, leaving the newspaper for another customer to read, and reaching for his wallet to pay for the coffee and breakfast.

"I need to get to my appointment, how much do I owe you?" he asked.

"The usual." Marco replied and Dan nodded, fishing cash out of the pouch.

He placed the cash on the bar and shook Marco's hand "You tell that son of yours to keep at it with those good grades, so he can get the college education he needs to one day turn this diner into a mega corporation."

Marco laughed and nodded as Dan took his leave out the glass door. Marco grabbed the dishes and the mug and put them behind him on the counter, before picking up the cash that was left for the food. He leafed through the bills, and chuckled when he came across the last three in the roll.

"You're proving me right Dan." He said to no one in particular, and dropped the three hundred dollar bills in the jar behind the counter, clearly emblazoned "College Fund."

…_**AD…**_

Dan fidgeted uncomfortably in the chair of the waiting room, continuing to stare at the stark white wall across from him. He never liked hospitals, or doctor's offices, or anything of the sort. It always seems too _sterile_, which obviously is a concept hospitals strive to be, but it is unsettling nonetheless. White walls, hand sanitizers everywhere you look, workers walking around in shapeless clothes, needles, substances with colors he couldn't even recognize, let alone know what they did when inside a person's body. He _hated_ it.

He looked at his watch and noticed his doctor was late again, as it always seemed to be the case when it came to health care professionals. Dan knows they have a demanding job, with long hours and high stress, but sometimes he can't help but wonder if they show late to exert some sort of power over their patients that they're white lab coats fail to grant them. Dan has to wait for the Doctor to know if he was healthy or not, giving the Doctor unmistakable power over him. Dan hated this as well.

"Mr. Puckett?" the nurse behind the desk finally said and he perked up, turning his head in her direction. She smiled at him, and glanced over her shoulder "Dr. Coleman will see you now."

He mumbled his thanks and stood up from the uncomfortable chair and made his way past the nurse's station, further into the medical building he dreaded. He saw his Doctor, Rod Coleman, coming towards him, motioning him to follow him deeper into the building.

He wasn't sure if he liked the young Doctor as a person. He chose him based on his impeccable credentials, high marks in schools and reviews, and flawless personal record. He was protocol to the bone, rigid and staunch and unwavering. These of course were favorable qualities when it came to such a meticulous and calculating job as a Physician, but what he had in pure knowledge girth, he lacked in people skills and charisma. To say he was as likeable as a rock, would be an insult to a rock.

He followed the young man into a room and sat down in the patient chair. Dr. Coleman pulled a seat from the side and sat directly in front of him, holding a metal clipboard in his hands, looking down and analyzing the words printed on the papers it held.

"So what's the good word Doc?" Dan asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence and the Doctor looked up at him, his eyes boring straight into him, cold and unwavering.

"I've gone over your test results and have accounted for your symptoms. What's causing your shortness of breath and chest pains…" He paused momentarily and Dan noticed that for the first time the confident young man seemed…at a loss for words and unsure of himself. His persona of a strong willed intelligent man was cracking before his eyes.

"What is it son?" Dan asked of him.

Dr. Coleman shook his head and sighed "I'm sorry Mr. Puckett, but I'm unsure of how to say this."

"Then just say it." Dan replied and Dr. Coleman nodded.

"Dan, you have Coronary Heart Disease."

It was at that moment, Dan Puckett for the first time in his life, was unable to comprehend what he was feeling. He understood his emotions, he knew when he was angry or depressed, elated or crestfallen, and he knew how to deal with each of those emotions. But this feeling, this mixture of dread, sickness, disheartened pathology, and bewilderment, it was incomprehensible to him. This feeling welled from the pit of his stomach to his chest until finally it evolved into a feeling he knew all too well. Despair.

He was unsure how to take the news, how to comprehend the glaring fact that heart disease was never good, and rarely had a happy ending. But yet here he was, sitting in this whitewashed room of a hospital he hated, across from a young doctor he barely knew, sharing this experience of his own mortality with him, and knowing in the back of his mind, if he were to perish and fall away from this earth, he would only be survived by a dog at home and abstract memories.

"Heart disease?" he eventually found his voice, his grave voice reflecting the feelings inside his body.

"I'm afraid so." Dr. Coleman said. "The arteries and small blood vessels around your heart have been constricted, and less blood and oxygen can flow to your heart as a result." He said and Dan sunk his head, burying his face in his hands.

"But listen to me Dan." Dr. Coleman said. "This isn't a death sentence, you can fight this."

Dan heard his words and tried to take solace in them, but found it difficult. "Answer a question for me Doc." He said, lifting his head to look straight at the young doctor. "What is the number one cause of death in the United States?" he asked, knowing full well the answer himself.

Dr. Coleman's eyes softened "I'm afraid if I tell you, you'll quit on me."

"Then save your breath, because you just answered the question." He replied, his voice sounding bitter and biting to the young doctor.

"Statistics don't mean anything to the individual." Dr. Coleman replied "I've gone over your blood work and you can fight this if you just try. We can give you the tools so this diagnosis doesn't finish you."

"Just…just give me a minute will you?" he snapped at the Doctor, who nodded quietly. Dan stood up from the patient chair and simply stared at the wall, a million thoughts racing through his head. How could he let this happen to him? How could he be so careless with his lifestyle?

"Doc." He said suddenly, and Dr. Coleman snapped to attention. "How did this happen to me?" Dan asked, refusing to look at the Doctor, in case he decided to breakdown in front of him.

"Well…" he trailed off. "The usual culprits in this disease are high stress, age, and poor diet."

"But I don't necessarily have a poor diet, and I'm retired, so it has to be something else." He denied.

"Mr. Puckett." The Doctor sighed resignedly "I'm sorry this has happened, truly I am, but this is what we're facing. You may not have a poor diet, but even occasional bad diet habits and can build over the years, and you may be retired now, but you had two very stressful jobs in your lifetime. And you know that isn't all."

Dan whirled on the Doctor "Don't you dare." He spit and Dr. Coleman put his hands up in front of him.

"You can't avoid it, it is a contributing factor." He said. "Statistics show PT-"

"You just said statistics don't mean anything to the individual!" Dan yelled, cutting him off.

"Please try to calm down Mr. Puckett, you must not react in anger." He said in monotone.

"Calm down?" He yelled back. "You just told me I'm going to die! I think that warrants me any kind of reaction I _fucking_ want!"

The Doctor recoiled and took a step back, a realization dawning in his eyes. "You're right, I am sorry Mr. Puckett." He apologized. "I-I just haven't ever done this before." He admitted in a soft voice, betraying his general characterization Dan made for him. "I've never had to tell a patient I like this kind of news."

"Then consider this a learning experience." Dan bit bitterly.

"I understand, and I'm going to try to handle this better." He said. "But listen to me, I know this seems like terrible news, and it is, but I can help you, and you can beat this."

Dan plopped back down on the patient chair, energy draining from his body "If this is the route we are going to take, give me the news straight. Don't sugar coat my chances, I need to know." He said and Dr. Coleman nodded, sitting back down as well.

"We caught this problem early, which greatly helps your chances." He starting, looking back down at his chart "We can give you medication for your pain and symptoms, and medication to combat the disease itself…"

…_**AD…**_

_There is no real way to tell how a man will react to news of imminent death, no predictor in this world to tell if he will cry, breakdown, take it with a stoic demeanor, anger like myself, or anything else. When faced with his own mortality, different men will take it different ways. I was taught as a U.S. Navy SEAL to not be afraid of death, to use it as a weapon on the battlefield. Like the old proverb says, "A man who wishes not to die, will die, but a man who wants to die, will surely live." I believe I may have flubbed the wording, but I know the intent._

_So I decided to heed the young Doctor's words, and to fight this disease like I have every other hardship in my life. It would be easy for me to lie down and wait for death, not wanting to risk my pride and self-worth by falling at death's feet, but pride is what has kept me alive all these years, and I'll be damned if it won't save me now. I refuse to go without a fight._

_But now, with the news of my untimely sickness, it brings to bear another fight I must endure. I cannot leave this world without once and for all, settling what I should have done decades ago. The family I left behind, I must reconcile with them, for I fear if I do not, my karmic balance would be skewed, and I may not be allowed passage after I pass. I do not know if there is anything beyond this world, but I don't wish to gamble on that fact._

_This journey is not only for me though, it is for the women I left behind all those years ago. I do not know how they would react to me, but my hypothesis is not very warmly. I would find it surprising if they even let me speak to them after the heinous act I committed against them. But they must know I regret the mistakes I have made, and I wish to reconcile, if only to put the issue to rest. Even if they shun me, cut me with their bitter words or harm me with their hatred, at least they will realize I made an effort, and I believe that will be enough to settle my guilt and achieve my karmic rebalance._

_So now I sit in this crowded Inn in the panhandle of Oklahoma, my home for the last thirty years, with all I will need sitting in my truck outside. My medications, my equipment, my heart healthy foods, all are packed into the back of the old, but reliable pickup truck. I will bring this journal to chronicle my journey and my trek as my only friend and confidant. It has been years since I have left the safety of the Southern Plains, and I would be dishonest if I said I wasn't afraid of what my journey may reveal to me, but if I don't try, that would be the greatest crime of them all._

_Tomorrow I will set out in the direction of the great Pacific Northwest; Seattle, Washington will be my destination. I am flying blind though, as I don't know if my daughters are still there or not, or even the woman I burdened them with alone, but Seattle is still the best place to start looking._

_My eyes and hand have grown weary, and I think it is time I take a rest so I can start early tomorrow morning. I will write again tomorrow when I settle in where I will be sleeping. My name is Daniel Puckett, and I have no idea what I am doing._

…_**AD…**_

**By the way, I wrote Dan to be a Navy SEAL before the pure badassery(I do not care if it isn't a word) of SEAL Team Six. It simply seemed to coincide with the time I posted the first chapter.**

**Reviews and feedback would be greatly appreciated. **


	3. Laramie, Wyoming

**Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly, I only own the plot holes and bad grammar.**

…_**AD…**_

_March 17__th__, 2022_

_Laramie, Wyoming_

_Motel 6.2_

_I have been in Laramie a total of one hour and I already feel as if I do not want to leave. This place has the atheistic qualities I have searched for my entire life, and pictures perfectly why I settled down in such an obscure location like Oklahoma City. The hustle and bustle of city life just doesn't suit me the way it did a long time ago, and Laramie at a brief glance seems to have all I want and more. Its delicious mix of city opportunity, small town charm, and breathtaking scenery could keep me here forever, if I wasn't on a mission._

_Its historic qualities knows no bounds, as it was a main thoroughfare and resting point for the Holy Road i.e. the Oregon Trail, and many settlers and Native Americans have traversed this great location from the early days of Manifest Destiny, to now, all for the sake of exploring the great American West. I would have loved to visit its historic sites and museums, but alas I lack the time to do these types of things._

_Time. I wish I had a lot more time to do things for myself, but looking back at my younger self, I lacked the foresight to slow down, and just live with the world around me. Ambition induced tunnel-vision, and in reflection, I wonder why I did not hate that very concept. But of course, as fate would have it, I only slowed down when it was far too late to do so effectively. I had already lived most of my life, amassed all I have today, but I would give it all back to know what I know today. It is saddening to say the least, that I have been reduced to this crotchety old man, pining for the old days. I took many wrong turns in life, and only now do I recognize them._

_Learn and move on. I hear that phrase being pimped by every self-help author and motivational speaker I have ever known, and I wonder if it isn't complete bullshit in a certain sense. I have learned and moved on, but that doesn't make the pain sting less. Yes, you do need to learn from your mistakes and mature, this is the process all young people must undertake, and there is no one in existence who has never made a mistake, no one who doesn't know the feeling of error or embarrassment. But even that comforting thought, that you are not alone in your faults, does little to nothing to help you with your specific mistake._

_Have there been other Fathers to abandon their children? Yes, far too many in fact. Will there be more in future to do so? Yes, unfortunately I am not the first, nor will I be the last. But that thought does not lessen the guilt and pain I face. My example admittedly is part of the extreme scale to errors, and I will garner far less sympathy than someone who has made a smaller mistake, and I expect that. Maybe this is why I feel the way I feel._

_But of course, back to my original point, will I ever truly move on, even though I have admitted my mistake, and taking necessary steps to rectify it? Can I ever forgive myself for depriving my daughters of a Father throughout their lives? Can I forgive myself for submitting them to a life without me, forced to watch real Fathers take care of their kids, play with them, laugh with them, teach them, while they went home to only a Mother? A child needs a Father, and I failed to give them one._

_My hypothesis is no, I will never forgive myself, and they will never forgive me. It's a disheartening realization, but it is utterly accurate. It's disheartening to realize that you as a person, no matter how philanthropically able you are, how generous and caring you are, or how intelligent and resourceful you are, you will forever know yourself as a deadbeat and a coward. It is self-loathing taken the furthest degree possible, and no matter how much you change, no matter how many people are completely loyal to you, you can never shake the feeling you are a terrible person masquerading as a benevolent being. You can never relinquish the feeling of dissonance you feel when you think of your self-perception._

_You want to convince yourself you are a virtuous person, you wish to feel elated and excited when a person says you are a wonderful person, but in the end, no amount of compliments and commemorations and fill that dark part of yourself. You want to redeem yourself for your past atrocities, but find that no matter how hard you try, you can never convince yourself you have rebalanced your karma._

_Redemption. Redemption is an interesting concept. It is seen, for the most part, as a positive concept, depicting that someone has made up for a past mistake or sin, and is now viewed in a positive light by themselves, others, and most importantly, the people they wronged in first place. It somehow erases the prior mistake in the minds of the people, and it is immediately replaced with the story of redemption._

_But, why?_

_Why does the act of redemption suddenly make the mistake invisible? Why? It is one thing to completely redeem yourself, but it is impossible, and I mean impossible, to completely forgive and forget the precedent. I have killed many people in my life, in the name of country and service and freedom, and I was welcomed back home with open arms, a pat on the back, and a check for destroying someone I did not know. I was paid to end people's lives. Where is the benevolence and virtue in that?_

_I was given medals, honor, and power, because I ended many a person's life. Was I redeemed in my quest? Yes, I was given the abstract sense of honor and duty, and saved many innocent lives, but that does not mean we can wipe away what I did to get to that point. My awards will not bring back to life those I left bleeding on the battlefield. They were bad people, but they were still people. No matter the number of rallies, parades, and no matter how much pride I took in myself, nothing can wipe from my memories shooting a shell at person, and watching it whizz and rip into their chest, and ending their existence on this planet. But I am the only person who bares this burden, to all others, it is simply a statistic._

_Redemption does not erase the error, or in my case, the feeling of watching a man die because of you. At the time, I did not care. The only thing I felt when I killed a man, was recoil. That is all. I felt the buck of my gun and I moved on, because I knew it was kill or be killed, and I was fine with that. Hell, I thrived in that atmosphere for my entire life. But that doesn't make me immune to the memories. Do I regret it? No, I do not. I do not care if that makes me seem cold. But do I wish that somehow I could have avoided killing men? With all of my heart._

_And all in all, this is why I am brought here today. No matter my feelings on the concept, redemption is why I am hundreds of miles from home, in this dark and dreary motel room, resting until tomorrow, when I can drive even further from my comfort zone. It will not erase the past, my redemptive story, but maybe, just maybe, it can forge a better future for myself, and maybe even for my daughters. It comes back to my karmic balance, for every man I killed, every village I burned, for running from my family, for not keeping in touch with them, the metaphorical balance has crashed under the weight of my heinous acts, but I will try to shift the weight to the other side. Maybe then will I finally be at peace._

_I have to laugh to myself now, for I have burdened this journal with my problems when it has not asked for such a thing. I just keep jumping from one gloomy subject to the next, without giving myself pause. My apologies to the pages that house my darkest thoughts and cognitive ramblings, but driving through flat land with no one to talk to you, makes a person reflect and think without being interrupted._

_But then eventually the question comes when all is known about my past, and I know that if this journal did have cognitive faculties and could pose me a question, the question would be: why? Why did you run from your family all those years ago? And why did you become a SEAL, knowing that you would be forced to take life, and have countless coffins rest on your conscience?_

_I have pondered the question of my forgotten family from the second I bordered a bus taking me from Seattle nearly thirty years ago, to this very moment writing down these words. And I all I have decided, all I have ever come up with is, I do not know. I don't know what drove me to leave and never look back, knowing full well what my actions would create in their wake._

_It was a snap decision, when the weight of the world was thrown at me. I was in a dark place at the time it happened. I had just been discharged from the Navy, from everything I had ever known, and I did not know what to do with myself. I was stuck in place, lost between my past life, and whatever my future would hold for me, and I was frozen in limbo physically and metaphorically, with the only friend I had at the time: the bottle._

_For nearly a year after being discharged, I was at all times dangling between being sober and drunk, balancing on a knife's edge between conscious thought, and wild ambition in my drunken haze, but I never did a thing to stop myself. I would hop from bar to bar, draining my commission on alcohol and women, the wherewithal I had was being killed slowly with every drink of poison I swallowed down my gullet._

_I drank because I was depressed, I drank because I had nothing better to do, I drank because it was the only way I could suppress the memories I had built in my young life, and I knew it was a self-destructive path, but I didn't care. Why did I deserve to live anyway? My comrades, my friends, I watched some of them die, and the only retaliation I could muster was to kill those responsible, thus creating the vicious cycle of kill or be killed, an eye or an eye, but tell me, is that the right thing to do? Are you truly bringing justice by repeating the sins of your enemy? Whether or not it is, it was the only thing I could do._

_In my alcohol induced haze, I had become bitter and resentful, acrimonious and hateful, and no longer was I enjoying myself, but I still couldn't stop. I couldn't stop drinking and chasing women, starting fights and spending nights in jail or in the drunk tank. I was so screwed up at the time, police officers would recognize me when they broke up a fight or caught me being drunk in public, and it is absolutely humiliating to me now._

_But even in the wake of all this, I can still clearly remember the day I met her. Her. All I need is to write the pronoun and I vividly recollect all my memories of the woman. I had met her in a dive one night, but even in the dark atmosphere, filled with cigarette smoke and smelling sharply of alcohol and marijuana, I could clearly see her beauty and the epigamic way she carried herself, and I was smitten. She had color in a colorblind world._

_Her name was Pam, and she laughed beautifully when she said we were destined to meet each other because our names rhymed, and I was so awestruck by her I didn't feel it necessary to tell her our names don't actually rhyme. It was almost like she gave off this unmistakable ethereal glow, like she produced her own bright light that tried to wash away the darkness that engorged my heart._

_I confided everything in her, and she willingly listened to all my stories, all my psycho-babble bullshit, and all my horror stories I was allowed to tell her and not have men dressed in black come take her away. She lent me her ears and her shoulder to cry on when the memories became too overbearing, and she gave me someone I could talk to, and I no longer had to resort to whispering my memories into a glass bottle of alcohol._

_She was the only woman I ever felt truly close to, the only woman I felt comfortable to tell my deepest and darkest secrets. I loved my brothers in arms and my fellow SEALs dearly, but for a man, there are certain things in this world only the fairer sex can understand and consociate, and she offered me this special prize most men on the planet search tirelessly for, whether they admit it or not._

_She helped me to my feet when I thought for sure I would spend the rest of my life on my knees, she dusted me off, and patted me on the back. She reminded me that I had my pride and my strength, and I had not lost my two most precious attributes when I was discharged. She reminded me that being a former SEAL and Navy officer may define me, but does not limit my ambition and what I could accomplish with the rest of my life._

_I was certain I had fallen in love with this woman._

_But then, as fate would have it, just when I was back on my feet and I was beginning to chart out what I would do with the rest of my life, it happened._

_I noticed it around the same time she did, but I kept my comments to myself. I noticed when she became sick nearly every morning, when her moods and attitudes started to change, and after doing some quick math, I noticed she was late. It was at that moment I began to fear what I knew was going to come next._

_She had gone to the doctor's office in the morning, and I waited on baited breath for her to return, and when she did, it was official. She was pregnant._

_I tried to show my excitement, but I just couldn't muster the feeling. I had just been pulled from the darkest part of the slums, and was beginning to piece my life back together slowly but surely, and this sprung on us. I had wanted to learn how to crawl before learning to walk, but with this revelation, I knew I had to hit the ground sprinting if I was going to support a family. And I wasn't ready for that._

_So, I went against every fiber of my being, everything I preached against, everything I knew was right and decent, and I ran. I ran and I ran and I didn't stop and I still don't know why I did it._

_The basic human response to adversity is fight, or flight, every faux and pseudo psychologist in the world knows that. When faced with a tough situation, you can either fight it and resist, or run and hope you're faster than what is chasing you. And when faced with this adversity, pregnancy and a fledgling family, I chose the latter and I ran, all the way to Oklahoma until I realized I was no longer being chased._

_And it went against everything I had done in my life up to that point. My natural response to everything was to fight. As a child, I fought school bullies and kids twice my size with no hesitation of qualms of what I was doing. As a teenager, I fought through dropping grades and eventually received my diploma, to everyone's surprise. I fought my alcoholic Father nearly every single day of my life, physically and emotionally. I became a Navy SEAL, fought through Hell Week, fought through crippling personality problems, fought through my weak heart and queasy stomach and eventually emerged a battle hardened veteran. I fought men who wished to kill me and do my country harm. I fought, with help, to kick my alcohol problem and rise from the ashes of my dying life, a new man with ambition and dreams._

_But even after all that, I ran at the thought of a baby and a family with a woman I loved._

_And yet, even with all these years that have trudged by, I still have not an idea as to why I ran away. Even now, angry wet tears are starting to fall onto this journal, bleeding the black ink of my utensil because of my regret for my mistake. But this time I am hurting, not because of the memories that haunt me, but because I have missed out on the memories I wish I had. I wish I had the memory of watching my daughters take their first steps, say their first words, go to kindergarten and learn how to become a person._

_I wish I had the memories of watching them go to high school, I wish I had the memory of helping them with their math homework when they struggled with Algebra, I wish I had the memory of seeing the scared faces of their boyfriends when they learn I was a Navy SEAL. I wish I could have seen them graduate with their diplomas and begin their adult lives, and I wish I was beside Pam the whole time, watching them grow up._

_But damnit I don't have those memories, nor do I deserve them anyway. I chose my path, and I chose wrong. _


	4. Pocatello, Idaho

**Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly, I only own the plot holes and bad grammar.**

**Forewarning, there is a depicted scene of violence and coarse language in this chapter that is graphic in nature. If you do not care for such things, you can skip over it if you wish.**

…_**AD…**_

_March 18__th__, 2022_

_Pocatello, Idaho_

_Portneuf River Hotel_

_My apologies for the abrupt ending to my last entry, but I found myself to be quite tired and drained, emotionally and physically as a result of my writing. It is very taxing to think back to that time in my life, revoking those memories to the forefront of my brain and having to relive them all over again, but I know if I don't hold on to those memories, I can never progress and grow as an individual. Even in my advanced years, I am still evolving. The human race will forever evolve during a lifetime, and will forever learn new things every day they wake up._

_But, in my previous entry, I posed myself the two questions that have framed my life: why did I abandon my family, and why did I become a SEAL? I have never answered the former fully, but I do know why I became a SEAL, that is still as clear as a cloudless day to me._

_There are many reasons why I chose the road I chose, many reasons why I proceeded down the path of war, violence, and heroism. As a boy, I was drawn by the sheer gravitas of the SEALs, their acrimonious and indignant attitudes towards all unnecessary forms of combat, their apparent apathetic concern for their brutal war fighting methods, and the absolute rigid and staunch stance on how an enemy to our country is dealt with. In short, I knew it was the only place I would fit in._

_And I did. There was one thing I knew how to do better than anything else, and that was how to fight and punish my foe until he no longer had the will to live. I was angry as a child, and for the most part, for no reason at all. I would start fights constantly and I would take any remark thrown my way as a threat, even if it was innocuous statement. I was labeled an angry, misguided child with no foresight into what my actions were causing, and they were right to an extent._

_But whoever it was that started the fight, I ended it. I wasn't the biggest, or the strongest, or the fastest, but I was the most merciless and bloodthirsty. Surrender had no bearing on me, and claimed I didn't know what it even meant. Surrendering is for cowards and running away is for snakes and scum, not worthy to call themselves combatants._

_And while those attributes were not accepted in the schoolyard or in the classrooms, the SEALs relished and exalted these traits. I harmonized wonderfully with likeminded individuals like myself, and we spoke the same language of power and dominance. And because of this realization, I enrolled in the Navy ROTC program as soon as I was able, so I could better interact with these new friends, and progress faster towards my ultimate goal of becoming a Navy SEAL._

_Still to this day, I believe entering the ROTC program was one of the best decisions of my life, maybe even the best. There is nothing better to set a young person straight, than discipline and standards, and teaching them how to work appropriately as a team to achieve a common goal. A person realizes that individuality and conformity do not have to always be at war with each other, they can coexist in a peaceful society._

_Conformity is not an inherently bad concept, and individuality is not the ultimate form of self-expression. Being an iconoclast and speaking out for what you think is right is an admirable trait in a world desperate for dissenting arguments and free expression, but trashing and admonishing conformity is, to put it frankly, idiotic and morally ambivalent. For society to operate smoothly and efficiently, there needs to be at least some semblance of conformity, or anarchy would reign._

_Is one not conforming when they drive on the right side of the road (Or left in the case of our neighbors across the pond)? What would happen if people decided to forgo traffic laws and be an individual? I do not think I need to answer that question. There is a balance that is constant in modern society, between conformity and individuality, and to fully comprehend and practice each concept, is where society functions idealistically and efficiently._

_The ROTC program taught me this balance. It taught me that a person can only travel so far on their own until they come to a dead end, and eventually you will have to rely on another person or thing to help you, so therefore you may evolve and grow as a person. Selfishness is how I survived my life up to that point. I only thought of myself, and how I was going to fair until the next day, and how I was going to deal with what life threw at me, but it was when I joined I realized the lifestyle I was living, was ultimately leading me down a dark path I wanted no part._

_So I trained and interacted with the other members of my ROTC program, learned the aspects of discipline, acquired the knowledge useful to my future as a SEAL, and tried to work through some of my social problems, acquiescing a part of my general individuality, to better prepare me for the rigors of SEAL life. I had made it abundantly clear to my drill sergeants that being a SEAL was my goal, and I wouldn't waver in my resolve. I only ever remember receiving a smirk in return from my drill sergeant._

_The program offered me an escape from reality, an abstract disconnect from the life that surrounded me. While I was within the confines of the training facilities, with the other men and women I shared my experiences with, with the officers and sergeants that drilled us into the ground, but showed us kindness and compassion when in equal company, I felt happy and relieved. No one understood exactly what I was going through, but they understood it was difficult and menacing, and supported me in my endeavors. I was slowing moving away from my "real" life, inch by inch, until eventually I hoped I could be consumed fully by the military, and never have to struggle to find a place to sleep or find something to eat, and hopefully never to see my Father again._

_My Father was always an interesting character in the story of my childhood. I never had the feeling that he loved me, or even liked me for that matter. I always seemed to be a…burden on him, a metaphorical wall he was forced to sit behind while he watched his dreams fizzle and die. My Mother died when I was young, and I have no memories or recollections of her, and I've only ever seen one picture of her, and it did not paint her in an endearing light. Hunched over a table, straw in hand, bloodshot eyes with heavy darkened bags hanging under her sockets, white powder sprinkled in her hair and nose. It didn't take me long to figure out how she probably died._

_My Father vehemently claims it was a car accident, but based on the picture I saw, the multiple police visits over the years, the visits from shady individuals, and the glaring fact that my Mother had never received her license due to problems with the law in her teens, gave rise to feelings of doubt. I had the sneaking suspicion the cause of her death was much more sinister than my Father ever let on, but I never pushed the issue. I hardly cared in the first place._

_But with my Mother deceased, Father was forced to raise me on his own. He was a construction worker, worked twelve hour days, and all his money was funneled into rent, food, and alcohol. If my Father wasn't drunk, he wasn't alive. The man claimed to have never had a hangover, possibly because he never stopped drinking._

_These issues, a demanding job, alcoholism, a kid, and broken dreams, did not concoct a happy home life for myself. Maybe this was the reason I was angry as a child, as it was the only emotion I knew how to convey. My Father spit venom when he talked, red faced and angry, and I can hardly remember a time he conveyed another feeling towards me. He was like a deadly wasp, always hunting for that next unfortunate individual to spit his rage at, and did not discern friend from foe, or stranger from family. Happiness, despair, pride…none of these feelings were ever directed at me, and as a result, I didn't know another feeling existed._

_So my natural reaction to him, was to stay away as much as a possibly could, and always keep a pocket knife sheathed in my sock inside my boot. I was determined to be never caught off guard by him, for his fits of rage knew no schedule, and it could be 8:30 in the morning, or midnight when he rouse himself to come after me. My home was the most dangerous place for me to be, which is why I took refuge on the streets. At least if someone were to come after me on the street, they would have the decency to do it at night, where I could plan for them._

_But then the fateful day came. I had left school with a diploma, and had every intention to walk right into that Navy recruiting station and sign my name on the dotted line and officially give my life to the United States government, but I had a problem. I was a young man, too young to be exact. I was still only sixteen years old, and you had to be eighteen to join, but I wasn't prepared to wait. I couldn't stick around any longer with my Father._

_The tipping point came, the point where all the roads of my life intersected and chose my route for me, one dark and dreary night. I remember that night clearly._

…_**AD…**_

It had been raining nearly all day, meaning that Dan's Father had to come home early from work. He began drinking as soon as he walked in the door and didn't cease for hours on end, and Dan locked myself up in his room, knife in his sock, and waited for the rain to die down so he could leave the house and avoid his inebriated Father. The rain didn't stop though, and he began to worry it wouldn't stop and continue on well into the night, forcing him to stay trapped inside the house, with an apex predator just waiting for the right moment to strike.

The clock on the wall of his room struck midnight, and without warning, his door flew open. He jumped at the sudden shock of the sound and braced himself against the headboard of his bed, staring straight into the bloodshot eyes of the mountain of a man who he dismally called his Father.

He was snarling, his jaw tightly set into a scowl and his nostrils flaring, his muscles tightened and flexed reflexively, his eyes boring into those belonging to his son. The beer bottle he gripped in his hand shook, the liquid inside quaking from the energy his grip exerted into it and Dan had a sneaking suspicion he fully intended to use that bottle not just for drinking.

"I figured you'd be gone by now boy." He spat at him, slamming the door behind him.

Dan slipped off his bed slowly and meticulously, like a man would move when faced with a menacing bear. His Father's eyes never left his own, watching Dan move slowly to the other side of the room, towards his desk.

"Why haven't you run off yet?" he asked when Dan didn't respond to his question. "Are you scared of a little water?"

"No." Dan replied. "Maybe I missed my daddy and wanted to spend time with him?" he was taunting him, like a matador taunts a bull, and the man growled, lifting the glass bottle and taking a swig of it, washing the liquid down his throat.

"You insolent little punk." He barked, grinding his yellow teeth, protruding incisors making him seem more dangerous, animalistic. "Someone needs to teach you a lesson in manners."

"Maybe I shouldn't take lessons from a pathetic man with a drinking problem." Dan bit back, taunting him again.

"That little comment is going to cost you." His Father intoned, flipping the bottle in his hand and crashing it against the corner of the wall, liquid and shards of glass falling to the ground, leaving a jagged bottle of protruding sharp points and crushed glass.

Dan grabbed the handle of his desk drawer, tightening his grip and stared his Father straight in the eye, meeting him toe to toe in a battle of wills. Dan knew this moment was going to harness all the hatred that had been brewing between the two men for as long as Dan could remember, and knew what ever was to transpire, would be utterly and completely, _permanent_. "Bring it, old man."

His Father growled and stumbled forward, the bottle out in front of his charge. Dan pulled the drawer out completely, disconnecting it from the desk and stepped to his right, swinging the heavy wooden object towards his Father's skull.

It connected with a deafening _BANG_, sending the large man stumbling to his left, and Dan darted behind him, sprinting for the door. Adrenalin filled his veins as he swung the door open, glancing behind him and saw his Father leaned against the desk, still standing. He had his hand held against his skull, where the drawer had hit, and Dan could see the crimson ooze running through his fingers and down his arm.

"That _fucking_ hurt!" his Father screamed, turning to the door, jagged bottle still clutched in his mitt. Dan dashed down the hall, his boots stomping down the floor until he reached the kitchen. He quickly searched the area, eyes roaming over the countertops until they landed on his prize.

He pulled the large steak knife sticking in the cutlery holder out, gazing at the pristine blade, before grabbing the holder itself. He tossed the holder out the small window, sending the heavy object laden with sharp instruments through the glass to the ground blow, outside the house. He turned back to the hall, and saw his Father stumbling down towards him, his drunken state diluting the pain of his gashed skull.

Dan poised the blade in front of him, trying to keep the drunken man at bay "Stay back!" Dan screamed. "Or I'll cut your _fucking_ head off!"

The man growled and threw the jagged bottle at Dan, who ducked in response. The bottle shattered as it hit the refrigerator behind him, tiny glass shards coating the floor and the man lurched forward, catching Dan by surprise.

His Father had him by the wrists and forced him back against the refrigerator, the steak knife clutched in his hand falling to the ground and out of reach. Dan struggled against the grip of the larger man and desperately tried to slip away, but he wasn't strong enough to peel the hands of his Father off himself and felt a powerful knee hit him directly in the solar plexus.

Dan cried out in pain and dropped to floor, desperately trying to catch the breath that was taken from him, clutching his arms around his body. He could feel his lungs trying to resuscitate him, and swear he could feel them pounding against his ribcage in exertion. He was vaguely aware of the steak knife that lay a few feet from him, but when he received a hard kick to the stomach, all conscious thought left him in a _WOOSH_ and he grimaced in pain.

"You're nothing but a dirty mark on my life!" he heard the scream from above him, and another hard kick connected with him. "You're the reason she died!"

Dan stayed curled in a ball, laying on the floor midst the broken glass and dirt, in the fetal position, praying he had the strength to fight back, but with every hard kick he received to the stomach, and every strangled breath his lungs forced up his windpipe, he wondered if this was his destiny. To die by his Father in a dirty apartment with no one around to hear his last words.

"You ruined our lives!" another scream and another kick and he fisted his hands on the ground, jagged pieces of glass cutting into his palm. He felt footsteps turn from him, and walk in the direction of the steak knife and he gasped for air, desperately trying to fill his body with oxygen, to give him strength to prevent his own gruesome demise.

He heard the blade scrape against the hard ground of the kitchen and he rolled onto his back, staring up at his Father stalking towards him, a menacing glare in his glassed eyes, the blade of the knife reflecting the dull light of the living room just behind him. The light portrayed a small desk lamp and a small table and Dan instantly recognized what he would have to do to survive this terror.

He lifted his hand and threw the shards of glass up suddenly towards his stalking Father and heard him cry out in pain, the steak knife clambering to the floor a mere inch from Dan's skull. The man recoiled and screamed in agony as the glass cut into his eyes and he stumbled back against the wall of the kitchen.

Dan scrambled to his feet as fast as he was able and darted into the living room, towards the small table and lamp. He jumped over the couch and landed on his knees in front of the table and pulled on the drawer, but it was clearly locked. He swore to himself and looked behind him, seeing the dark figure of his Father still viciously rubbing his eyes to remove the glass.

Dan immediately remembered his backup plan while looking at his Father and pulled his right leg out from under him. He shoved his hand down into the sock that donned his foot and felt the metal object he embedded there. He pulled it out and swung the blade open.

He shoved the blade in the small area between the top of the drawer and the table and pulled with all his might and pried the drawer open, it popping with a metallic sound, the lock breaking under the pressure. He gazed inside the drawer and his heard leapt in his throat at the realization of what he was forced to do.

He grabbed the handle of the black metallic object and turned to his Father, his finger sliding over the black trigger. He fingered the safety off with his thumb and lifted the object parallel with the ground, pointing the menacing muzzle directly at the man. He took a breath and calmed his racing mind, and his racing heart.

His Father turned towards Dan, his eyes red and puffy, small trickles of blood running down his cheeks like lines of tears. His eyes widened and everything slowed down for Dan. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, his breathing puffing out over the metallic killing device, and saw his Father raise his hands in fear, taking a small step back, realizing too late his own destiny.

Wordlessly, Dan squeezed the trigger and at that moment, his prophecy had come to fruition and his destiny had been shifted. The moment had forever changed his life, and it was _permanent._

_Bang_

_Bang_

_Bang_


End file.
